


Day 2: Beard

by likethedirection



Series: Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge 2016 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bickering, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Shaving, Warning: Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethedirection/pseuds/likethedirection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes are closed, his head is tipped back, and Sherlock Holmes is pressing a blade against his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 2: Beard

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge](http://sincerelyjimlock.tumblr.com/post/146926763135/sheriarty-30-day-challenge) on Tumblr. :)

His eyes are closed, his head is tipped back, and Sherlock Holmes is pressing a blade against his throat.

 Jim takes a deep, meditative breath and sinks into it all.  The blade is small and cool and steady in the hand that holds it, sharp, a contrast to the smooth warmth of Sherlock’s other hand resting flat against his hairline, keeping his head back and throat exposed.  One thumb smooths over Jim’s hair.  Sherlock is close, so close, standing over him, smelling of the rain pounding the boarded windows.

He wouldn’t mind it, dying like this.  He wouldn’t mind the prick and pull of this blade across his throat, or the spill of wet warmth down his front, if the last thing he hears and smells and touches is Sherlock.

Above him, Sherlock says, “Stop.”

“Stop what?” Jim mumbles, leaving his eyes closed.

 “Thinking.”  Sherlock begins his work, drawing the blade along Jim’s jaw, leaving a stripe of smooth skin in its wake.

Jim smiles a bit, not widely enough to skew the blade.  “You’d hate for me to stop thinking.”

“You’re being morbid.”

Opening his eyes, Jim looks calmly up at him.  “How do you know?”

Sherlock pauses just long enough to meet his gaze.  He’s beautiful at every angle, this one included, his eyes the color of the rain clouds in this light.  “I know.”

Warmth clenches behind Jim’s ribs and pushes across his skin.  Softly, he agrees, “You do.”

They fall silent, and Jim lets Sherlock work, keeping his eyes open now, watching his face.  Sherlock looks calmer when he’s concentrating, when he must focus.  He’s always been good with meticulous things.  Jim’s observation clearly isn’t bothering him, but after a moment Sherlock still mutters, “Must you do that?”

“What would you have me look at?”

Sherlock pulls the razor blade slowly up Jim’s cheek.  “I’m hardly the only subject of interest in this room.”

Jim looks flatly up at him.  “Don’t fish.  It’s tacky.”

“It would only be fishing if I thought I _were_ the only--”

“You are,” Jim interrupts, rolling his eyes and making pointed eye contact.  “You know you are.”

Sherlock, ridiculous bloody peacock he is, makes only the barest effort not to preen.  God help him, Jim loves him a bit for it.

Another spell of silence, broken only by the soft scratch of the razor being drawn across his skin, and Sherlock murmurs, “You’ve lost weight.”

Jim shrugs.  “Death will do that to you.”

Sherlock’s lips press together.  “You were very convincing.”

“Give you a fright?”  Sherlock glares down at him, and Jim chuckles.  “I’m a performer, darling.  I meant to.  Truth is the key ingredient of a good lie.”

“Tell me how you did it.”

“Still no.”  The things Jim wants to do to that sulky little frown.  He closes his eyes, because there will be time later for that.  Time and time and time.  “By the by, if you’re attempting to give me a soul patch, this will become a very difficult day for us both.”

“They’re all difficult days,” Sherlock says, not without fondness, not without anticipatory pleasure.

Jim tilts his head a bit, making Sherlock click his tongue and relocate his free hand to the newly smooth half of his face, holding him still.  He becomes acutely aware of the pulse in each one of his long fingers.  “Oh, I don’t know.  This bit isn’t awfully taxing.”

“Naturally, considering I’m doing the work.”

“Naturally, considering you’re the one who couldn’t tolerate my disguise.”

Sherlock is making a face, he just knows it, and it’s audible when he speaks again.  “It didn’t suit you.”

“ _Disguise_ , dear.  The whole point is for it not to suit me.  Speaking of which, I’ve seen photos from your junkie days, and you’re in _no_ position to be so scandalized by a harmless little beard.”

“False equivalence.  Either way, you left me with little choice in the matter.”  He is nearly done, which is a shame, because Jim doesn’t think he’d mind a few more hours of this.  It’s meditative.  It’s intimate, though truly, it has never not been intimate, this thing of theirs.  It’s Sherlock.  “It was either resolve the problem or continue to be subjected to it.  I chose the former." 

Jim opens his eyes again, studying the little wrinkle between Sherlock’s eyebrows.  “Where does your brother think you are?”

“Turkmenistan,” Sherlock murmurs, concentrating on the last few strokes, “probably, considering what he likely anticipates to be my traveling speed and agenda.  Dismantling your criminal network,” he adds as an afterthought.

The laugh that bubbles out of Jim is entirely genuine, warm and high-pitched, and he covers his mouth, chuckling into his hand while Sherlock tries to hide the corner of his mouth twitching up.  “ _Dismantling_ my--oh, honey.”

Finished now, Sherlock rolls his eyes, handing Jim a towel.  “It’s not entirely beyond my capabilities.”  That just sets Jim off again, pressing the towel over his whole face until he can get it out of his system.  It makes his stomach hurt, and his cheeks, and his head, a bit, because they are not used to this.  He’s finally getting his breath, his cheeks still flushed with mirth, when Sherlock snatches the towel away.  “You’re being rude.”

“You’re being adorable.  Come here.”  Jim reaches up and back, grabbing at the air until Sherlock grudgingly comes close enough to take its place.  Huffing, Jim stretches to reach the back of Sherlock’s head.  “I said come _here._ ”

He pulls Sherlock down, and finally Sherlock seems to get the message, bending to meet him.  It’s an odd angle for a kiss, but kissing Sherlock hasn’t lost its novelty.  They close their eyes.  Sherlock’s lips are warm, a bit chapped, good to tease with his teeth, and Sherlock makes an impossibly low sound and brings his hand back to Jim’s cheek, now both smooth and dry.  He runs his fingers down Jim’s jaw and under his chin, tilting his head up to make it easier for their tongues, and Jim smiles.

Pulling back an inch, he murmurs, “More to your liking?”

Sherlock keeps tracing, admiring his handiwork with his fingertips.  “Much.”

He shifts, dropping his forehead to Jim’s, and they take a moment to breathe and feel each other.  Jim can feel him.  Every electrical circuit firing in that gorgeous brain, every deduction, every doubt.  This close, he can feel everything.

“What now?” Sherlock asks, sounding soothed by Jim’s fingers languidly mussing his hair.

Jim grins, because this is his favorite answer.  “Whatever we want.”

They are dead, and they are alive, and they are _they_.  They have time and time and time, and for once, that thought does not crush him or steal his breath.  He wouldn’t mind dying by Sherlock’s hand - it is still a possibility, always a possibility - but the thought pales before this moment, this beginning, of living by his side.


End file.
